


To The Road

by smolalienbee, Sway



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, First Meetings, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute, Road Trips, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29178834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolalienbee/pseuds/smolalienbee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sway/pseuds/Sway
Summary: While more people board and the driver loads their luggage, Aziraphale continues to check his little notebook. It’s all there. Dates, times, addresses. Everything nice and neatly worked out and timed and planned.What could possibly go wrong?Once a year, Aziraphale goes on a trip to find more books for his shop. He makes a plan and everything.But there is two things he hasn't taken into account this time. Traffic on the M25 and Crowley.Crowley who is way too rude, wears sunglasses indoors and speaks perfect French.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 137
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, GO Meet-Cutes, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. London Victoria - Calais

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smolalienbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolalienbee/gifts).



> There we are at last... I've never taken part in something so huge so I'm a little nervous about it all. 
> 
> [smolalienbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolalienbee) set me off on this little road trip along with these fine idiots with their gorgeous piece of art. And let's be honest, who doesn't long for taking a trip to... well, to ANYwhere, really. Thankfully we have fiction to dream ourselves away these days. 
> 
> For now this'll be two chapters with the next one going up next ~~Wednesday~~ week due to a little computer mishap on my end. And because I spend way too much time looking up ferry times and cute hotels. It was a downward spiral, let me tell ya. 
> 
> Also many a thanks to my dear [zebraljb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zebraljb) for reading through this.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this.

The loudspeaker gives a static-y crackle before a voice comes on. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a service announcement for the 007 service from London Victoria to Dover Town Center, scheduled departure 18:30 from bay 24 - this service will be departing in 15 minutes.”

Aziraphale checks his watch, the old fob watch that’s securely tugged into the pocket of his waistcoat, then he checks the clock in the waiting area. Both confirm what the loudspeaker has just announced. He still has 15 minutes, plenty of time to get a cup of tea and maybe a pastry. 

Wheeling his little suitcase into the Pret he stands in line, once again checking his watch. From his jacket pocket he draws a small notebook that’s filled with his neat handwriting. With a small mechanical pencil, he checks off a box next to the top entry that says: “take Tube - Piccadilly Circus/Bakerloo, change at Oxford Circus for Victoria line”. Everything goes according to plan. 

“Are we moving, then?”

Aziraphale gives a start and turns halfway around at the sound of the voice too close to his ear. “Excuse me?”

“Line’s moved. You did not.” 

Much to his dismay Aziraphale now realizes the gap between him and the customer in front of him. “Oh… I’m so sorry. My fault entirely. I better shuffle on, then.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

With heat in his cheeks, Aziraphale pushes his suitcase along until he’s breached the gap. “So sorry, really.”

He doesn’t get a reply from the stranger behind him. Instead, the barista calls for him to be next and Aziraphale moves ahead in line to place his order. While he’s waiting for his cinnamon danish to be heated and his tea to be poured, he tries to catch a glimpse at the rather rude person behind him but they’ve already swooped up to the other counter and grabbed a to-go cup. All he sees is a lot of black clothing and the soft sweep of long red hair. 

“There you go, sir,” the barista smiles politely, placing his food and drink on the counter. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you very much. Much obliged.” Aziraphale stuffs the danish into his back and takes his cup. “Have a good day.” With that, he shuffles off towards his departure bay.

He still has seven minutes to spare. Just enough time.

Again, he checks his little notebook. He knows his schedule by heart, he always does, but he can’t help it. As he stops to draw the fob watch from his pocket, someone bumps into him and almost knocks the paper cup from his hand. Thankfully the lid sits securely on top of it and only a bit of the hot tea spills out but it’s still enough to wet Aziraphale’s cuff and trousers.

“Excuse me,” he exclaims, trying to minimize the damage by holding the dripping cup at arm’s length. “Mind where you’re going.”

“Mind where you’re stopping and standing in the way.”

Aziraphale looks up. He’s faced with the same stranger from the Pret, faced with dark sunglasses and a gleeful smirk.

“I was standing in a perfectly normal spot to stop. Maybe you shouldn’t wear sunglasses inside as it seems to impair your vision,” Aziraphale snaps, slightly taken aback by his own tone. 

The stranger just scoffs, then turns on their heel and walks off.

Still fuming a bit, Aziraphale pulls out his pocket square and dabs at his sleeve and trouser legs, then dries his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a service announcement for the 007 service from London Victoria to Dover Town Center, scheduled departure 18:30 from bay 24 - this service will be departing in five minutes.”

Aziraphale looks up at the clock. “Oh goodness me.” He hurries through the automatic door, pulling his suitcase after him. 

There’s already a little queue forming at bay 24 and Aziraphale stands behind a small woman with a lot of hair piled on top of her head in the most artistic fashion. He has just worked out how that construct works against the rules of physics when the driver asks for his ticket. 

Aziraphale pulls it from his leather bound portfolio and presents with a little smile. “There you go. Everything is ticket-y boo, as I always say.”

The driver just looks at him. “Dover?”

“Yes, the town center. Need to catch a ferry, you see.”

“Your luggage will be over there.” The driver points at one of the compartments to the back of the bus.

“Very well. You know what you’re doing. I best get on, then.” Aziraphale points to the door of the coach but the driver has already walked off. “Right.. “

The coach is already halfway full as Aziraphale gets on. He has a reserved seat on the driver’s side because he always finds that side a bit more scenic on the drive down to Dover.

With his bag clutched in front of him, carefully balancing his tea cup, he makes it to his row. 

Seat #14. 

It is occupied. By that rude stranger. 

Aziraphale sighs but bites back a curse. There’s no need to be as impolite as this person. Surely it’s just a mix-up. 

“Excuse me… that seat seems to be mine,” he says after his polite cough has done absolutely nothing. “I reserved it.”

The stranger looks at him. Probably. Who is to tell with those pitch black glasses. With an annoyed groan they unfolds themselves from the seat and slip out into the aisle. 

Aziraphale ignores the sneer and scrambles into his seat, putting his cup into the little flip-down holder. He forces a smile onto his face. “Thank you very much.”

The stranger just gives him a bit of a snarl, then slumps down into the seat next to him, one long leg sticking out into the aisle for people to trip over. From the inside pocket of their jacket they pull a set of headphones and stick them into their ears. 

The music they pull up on their mobile is loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. Queen. 

For a moment he contemplates saying something along the lines of “that volume sure is damaging for you eardrums” but decides against it. Worst case scenario, he’s stuck with this person for the next three hours. Best not make any enemies before the coach has even pulled out of the station. And he’s always rather liked Queen.

While more people board and the driver loads their luggage, Aziraphale continues to check his little notebook. It’s all there. Dates, times, addresses. Everything nice and neatly worked out and timed and planned. 

What could possibly go wrong?

*

“Alright, folks… as you’ve seen, we have some backlog from the M25. It might take us a little while to get on the M20,” comes the driver’s voice through the crackling loudspeaker. 

An annoyed murmur goes through the entire coach. The bit of backlog is a full-blown traffic jam caused by a completely blocked exit ramp near Swanley. 

Aziraphale stares in horror out the window at the endless string of break lights in front of them. He’s already broken out in cold sweats once the coach had stopped but had tried to convince himself that they’d soon be moving again. That had been twenty minutes ago. 

“Oh no… oh no no no…,” he mumbles to himself, aimlessly flipping through his notebook. Of course there is no miracle solution in there to resolve the gridlocked traffic but at least it gives him the slightest sense of control over the situation.

“What’s going on?” his neighbor asks sluggishly while taking out one earbud. “Are we there yet?”

“No, we are not,” Aziraphale snaps. “We are stuck in traffic. Which means I’m going to miss the ferry. Which means I’m going to miss my connection in Calais. Which is a nightmare.”

The stranger sits up a bit straighter, finally roused from his slumber by Aziraphale’s almost tear-filled prattling. “The M25?”

“Of course, the M25. It’s always the M25. Bloody circle of hell is what that is. Whoever designed it should… they should…. Oh I don’t know. Something gruesome, that’s what.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” The stranger puts the earbud back in, closes their eyes, and relaxes back into the seat.

Aziraphale turns to stare at his neighbor. How can they just go back to sleep? How are they not panicking? Don’t they have plans? Connections? 

No, apparently not. As if nothing is at all wrong, they are asleep and softly snoring, head rolled to one side, mouth tugged into that same sneer Aziraphale had made his acquaintances with earlier. 

“Impossible,” Aziraphale grumbles to himself, then goes back to watching the traffic and how it’s very much not moving at all.

*

The coach stays where it is for the next ninety minutes. 

Ninety minutes in which Aziraphale checks his watch every five of them at first, then every three, then he leaves his fob watch out to stare at it. The hands are moving, the bus however is not.

With every passing minute, he gets more and more nervous, more and more fidgety. He thumbs through his notebook but it still tells him the same thing. He is going to be late. 

“You’re not going to have a breakdown, are you?” The stranger has apparently awoken from their slumber, peering at Aziraphale through his dark glasses.

“What?” Aziraphale asks, irritated.

“The way you’ve been checking that book, you look like you’re going to have a breakdown.” There’s a touch of amusement in their voice.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re still stuck in traffic. As we have been for the past 94 minutes. If we continue to be stuck, we won't make it to Dover in time. And if I’m not on that ferry - which is already the one after the one we should be able to make easily if everything goes according to plan - it’ll set off a chain reaction of tardiness which will unravel my entire plan.” Aziraphale snaps his book shut with a little huff. “Not that someone like you would understand.”

The stranger raises a brow so high it becomes visible above the rim of his glasses. “Someone like me? What kind of someone is that?”

Aziraphale feels heat in his cheeks. “Well, someone who is… rude and who bumps into people and doesn’t apologize. That kind of someone.” He turns away from his neighbor, focusing on the now slowly crawling traffic. He tries to ignore the somewhat flabbergasted expression of the stranger reflecting the window.

*

Aziraphale knows it’s a lost cause. They are spectacularly late. 

When the coach pulls into the station at last, the ferry at 22:15 is long gone. The one Aziraphale has booked a ticket for at 23:45 is supposed to leave in fifteen minutes.

As the passengers begin to file out of the bus, he can barely restrain himself from just climbing over the stranger who has yet to move out of their seat. Grumbling something vaguely rude, Aziraphale finally pushes into the aisle and shuffles towards the exit. Of course, he has to wait for his suitcase and when the driver finally pulls it out, Aziraphale hesitates spitefully to hand him a handsome tip. 

As fast as he can while dragging his suitcase behind him, Aziraphale makes his way to the cab stand and heads for the first available one. He hoists his luggage into the car, then falls into the backseat, drawing in a deep breath. He really needs to get into shape.

“The ferry terminal, please. Fast as you can.”

The driver eyes him through the rearview mirror, thankfully not stating the already painfully obvious, and pulls into the road. 

Again, Aziraphale checks his fob watch and his notebook in thirty second intervals as the cab makes the three mile journey. Twice, he barely refrains from urging the driver on to maybe go just that little bit over the speed limit. 

When they finally pull up in front of the terminal, Aziraphale all but throws his money at the cabby and hurtles out of the car, his suitcase in tow and bumping into his heels with every other step. As he gets into the terminal, the passenger counters are already closed even though the agents are still there. 

“Excuse me,” he pants, pulling his ticket from his bag. “I’m booked on the 23:45 ferry and I’m… the coach was late and…,” He actually needs to lean against the counter for balance and he reaches for his pocket square to dab away the sweat from his forehead. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” the agent at the counter says. “Boarding is already closed.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Aziraphale snaps impatiently. “But as I said, my coach was late and I need to be on that ferry.”

“The ferry is about to depart, sir. ” The agent tries for a smile but it falls short with Aziraphale. “National Express already called ahead and we have rescheduled everyone from the 23:45 to the 1:00.”

Aziraphale exhales loudly, flipping to the page in his notebook. “But, you see, I need to be on the 23:45. I have a seat on a coach that’s departing at 3am. If I’m taking the ferry at 1, I will not be able to make that connection.”

“I understand that, sir. But like I said… the ferry is set to depart. Unless you want to make a really big jump, we can’t let you through.” To emphasize her point, the agent sets a sign reading ‘Closed’ in bright red letters directly in front of Aziraphale’s nose.

Aziraphale’s shoulders sag. With the finality of those red letters his entire carefully crafted plan has gone to shit.

*

Through the large windows Aziraphale watches as the Pride of Burgundy pulls out of the harbour, the white hull almost glowing in the night. He has sat down on one of the benches that are closest to the exit gate, his suitcase close by his side, his now useless notebook in his bag and his fob watch in his pocket. 

He looks after the departing ferry, trying to figure out what to do. It’s almost midnight now, there is no one he can call or text even with the time difference. 

Lost in thought he flinches when a paper cup floats into his field of vision. 

“Sorry about the ferry.”

“Oh…,” Aziraphale says lamely, looking up at the stranger from the bus. “It’s you.”

“You look like you could use a cuppa.” The stranger puts the cup down and even takes half a step back as if Aziraphale might leap up or throw the tea.

He does none of these things, of course. Instead he smiles and nods. “As a matter of fact, I could. Thank you.” 

“I didn’t know how you take it, so…” A small heap of sugar satchels and little plastic cups of milk appears on the table.

Aziraphale pulls out one sugar and two milks from the pile. “Rather boringly, I’m afraid.” He prepares his tea and takes a tentative sip, sighing. “Guess I needed it more than I thought I did.”

“Mind if I…” The stranger gestures at the seat next to Aziraphale who shuffles a bit off to the side. 

“Not at all.” It’s only half a lie now.

Unabashedly horrified he watches how his travel companion dumps the rest of the milk and sugar into their own cup. They don’t even stir and Aziraphale is sure that any regular swivel stick would have broken in two given the amount of sugar.

They sit in silence for a while, sipping their tea. It actually feels good to drink something warm given that the waiting area feels cold, wet and a bit drafty. 

“So….,” Aziraphale says at last. “Did you need to be on the 23:45 as well or…”

“No, I just take whichever is next.”

Aziraphale shivers at the thought. “I couldn’t do that.”

The stranger smiles at him. A genuine smile, not the snarky smirk from earlier. “No, you couldn’t, could you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’ve checked your notebook every five second while we were on the coach. Figured you had your great plan all written out there.”

Aziraphale blushes. “You noticed that? I thought you were asleep.”

“It’s hard to stay asleep next to you.”

Aziraphale blushes even more and thanks whoever listens that the lights are somewhat dim and the stranger is still wearing their glasses. “My apologies,” he mumbles around the lip of his cup.

“No need. I can still catch some shut-eye on the ferry or on my next ride.”

“Where are you going?”

The stranger shrugs. “Paris, most likely.”

“You don’t know?”

“Depends on which lorry I can get on. Might end up in Brussels or - hell forbid - Berlin.”

“You’re a hitchhiker,” Aziraphale states the obvious and not without a little gasp. 

“Independent traveler.”

“A drifter.”

“You’re not very good with people, are you?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Aziraphale shrinks back a bit, now blushing for an entirely different reason. ”As you have noticed I’m very keen on planning and sticking to that plan. Not knowing where one is going… it’s making me nauseous just thinking about it. I could never do that.”

The stranger smiles again. “Maybe you should try it. Might do you some good.”

“Oh no, thank you. I’m rather happy with the way I go about.”

“And where is that?”

Aziraphale hesitates for a second. “Paris, as well. At least that was…,” he glances at his bag where he keeps his book, “at least that was the plan until that ferry left without me. I was supposed to take a coach from Calais but now I have to figure out other means of transportation.”

“Want me to flag down a lorry for you?” The stranger grins a sharkish grin at him.

“Oh my word, no. I’m not getting on any lorry.” He sits up a bit straighter. “Besides, you are a complete stranger. I could never…”

“Crowley,” the stranger says.

“What?”

“Now you know my name and we’re not strangers anymore.”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Right… my name is Aziraphale.”

“That’s unusual.”

“Well, actually it’s Francis but… it’s a long story, so…”

“Francis is better than Anthony.”

Aziraphale frowns a bit. “I think I prefer Crowley.”

“That makes two of us, then.”

“I’m still not getting on a lorry with you.”

*

The Pride of Kent pulls into the harbour about half an hour later. 

“Well, then... ,” Aziraphale rises, straightening his clothes. “It’s been nice to make your acquaintance, Crowley.” He sticks out his hand. “Save travels to you. Mind how you go.”

Crowley shakes Aziraphale’s hand with an amused smile. “Likewise. And if you change your mind on the lorry…”

“No, thank you. I’d rather not wish to be brutally murdered.”

Crowley shrugs, his smile widening. “I’d protect you.”

Aziraphale blushes. “Well, best not let it come to that.” He slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder and takes out his ticket. “I should get going.”

“Of course.” Crowley points in the opposite direction. “I should get a proper ticket, then.”

“That would be best. Also legal.”

“Right.” 

There’s a moment of awkward silence between them before Aziraphale turns and hurries off to the boarding area where a few other passengers are already gathered. He tries not to look back at Crowley. 

*

A low rumble runs through the ferry as the vessel starts to pull out of the harbour. Soon enough the lights of Dover begin to disappear in the night. 

Aziraphale wheels his suitcase along the almost deserted corridors. There aren’t that many people aboard, most of them are lorry drivers who have come up from the park deck to get something to drink or eat, some might even take a shower. 

He picks up a cup of tea himself to keep warm on the drafty ferry. He takes it to one of the sitting areas where he can look out one of the large windows. Not that there is a whole lot to see. The view beyond is pitch black with the occasional dot of light in the distance, other ships passing them.

He’s just about to take a sip of his tea when he sees a now familiar figure hurry past and out one of the doors that lead to the open deck. 

Not really sure why but somewhat alarmed Aziraphale gathers his belongings again and follows.

“Crowley, are you alright?” he asks carefully when he approaches them. 

Crowley is leaning against the railing, head out in the breeze with their hair whipping in all directions, fingers clawed around the iron bannister. 

“What?” 

“It's… it's me, Aziraphale. I just saw you and…. and I was wondering if you were alright. You don't… look so good.” Aziraphale tentatively reaches out a hand for Crowley's shoulder but pulls it back at the last second. 

“Thanks. You're a real charmer.”

“Sorry, I didn't…”

“I'm not good with boats. Well, not boats per se but being on water… no matter if it's some jolly-boat or Noah's bloody Arch… makes me want to boak.” 

Aziraphale can't help a little smile. “Good thing you decided to take a ferry, then.”

Crowley glowers at him, pushing a particularly annoying strand of hair out of their face.

“Oh, wait…” Aziraphale's face lights up when something occurs to him. He sets his tea cup down and pulls a mangled paper bag out of his bag. He breaks off half of the uneaten cinnamon danish. “Here, try this… if you do indeed need to…,” he makes a gesture with his hand, “at least you'd have something to, you know… boak.”

Crowley's expression is somewhere between amusement and disgust. “You bought that for yourself.”

“You need it more than I do.” Aziraphale tries not to look down at himself where the buttons of his waistcoat are straining just a bit. “Please, take it.”

At last, Crowley relents, taking a careful bite off the flaky treat. “This is good. Bit mushed but…” They continue to chew, then moan in delight, nodding as they place a hand on their stomach. “You're right. I do feel better. You're a real angel.”

Aziraphale feels himself blush. “Hardly. Besides, I know very well what you're going through. It's why I don't fly. Well, that and the fact that it scares the living daylight out of me.”

“An angel who's afraid of flying.” Crowley grins at him, chewing on the last piece of danish.

“Can't be an angel if I don't fly, can I?” Aziraphale matches the expression, actually feeling it for the first time tonight. “Could I possibly interest you in a cup of tea? Perhaps inside where it's less… wet and drafty.”

As if on cue, Crowley shivers in their little leather jacket. “Yeah, alright.”

Aziraphale buys them each a new cup of tea - his had gone irredeemably cold - and they sit down in one of the booths. 

Crowley takes a cautious sip, obviously not caring that the liquid is still scalding hot. “So tell me, then…. You don't like to fly and traveling by land gives you hives… What's so important that you're going through all that trouble?”

“Books,” Aziraphale says simply and he blushes as if he's said something naughty. “I own a bookshop in Soho, you see. Antiques, mostly. First and rare editions. And once a year I travel… to Paris and Rome mostly… to look for new volumes.”

“You mean old ones?” Crowley's brow ticks up over their sunglasses. 

“What?” It takes Aziraphale a moment to catch on. “Oh, right. Yeah. New old ones.”

Crowley grins at him but hides half of it around the rim of the tea cup.

“And what do you do? If I may ask.”

Crowley remains quiet for a moment, shifting in their seat. Aziraphale almost retracts the question but finally Crowley speaks. “Flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“Flowers. Well, plants in general. I used to be a landscape architect.”

Aziraphale draws a bit closer, his interest peaking. If he should have guessed Crowley's profession, he wouldn't have guessed that. “Used to be?” he asks curiously.

Crowley shrugs but their nonchalant demeanor is clearly just an act. “I had a business partner who did all the paperwork. Finances, contracts, the like… I never cared for administrative stuff so that worked out well for a while. Until I found out she was embezzling money. Had to give up my firm.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Aziraphale smiles a genuine little smile. 

“Not your fault. Taught me a few valuable lessons, didn't it?” 

“To take an admin course?” Aziraphale tries for a joke. 

“Not to trust people?” Crowley counters and Aziraphale's smile falters a bit.

“Oh.” He swallows, fidgeting a bit uneasily. He tries to change the subject. “So now you… you travel?”

Again, Crowley shrugs. “I can not have a job anywhere, can't I?”

Now it's Aziraphale's turn to shrug. “I suppose.”

Crowley downs the rest of their tea. “So those books… tell me about those books of yours.”

Before he can stop himself he leaps into a ramble about the kind of books he has at his shop and what he's looking for. About the shops he means to visit in Paris and Rome. He digresses a bit when he talks about this little café that serves the best crepes suzette in the country. No, in the world, you certainly can't get any decent crepes outside of France anyway. 

Every now and then Crowley gets a question in edgeways, spurring on Aziraphale's lively chatter. They smile at Aziraphale who wants to believe it's out of genuine interest. What a fool would he be to just go on for about an hour if Crowley didn't really care for it?

A tinny voice announces their approach to Calais harbour, interrupting Aziraphale's tale. He almost sighs in disappointment when they are asked to get ready to leave the ferry.

“Well, then… I suppose this is goodbye… again,” he says as he puts on his coat.

Crowley rises as well, stretching excessively enough to expose a little sliver of pale skin underneath their shirt. “Do you know what you're going to do now? How you'll get to Paris”?

“I'll figure something out.” It almost feels like a lie because Aziraphale has no idea what he's going to do and his ability to just 'figure something out' is ridiculously limited. 

“I could get us a…,” Crowley starts in a sing-songy voice that's clearly meant to wind Aziraphale up. 

“No. No, thank you,” Aziraphale interrupts. “That won't be necessary.”

“Suit yourself, angel.” Crowley hoists their backpack over their shoulder.

“Please don't call me that.” Aziraphale feels himself blush. 

Crowley shrugs. “Thanks for the help, though. It hasn't been this bad in a long while. Your danish saved my life.”

Aziraphale waves a hand. “Hardly. You could've…”

Crowley scoffs. “Learn how to take a compliment, will you?”

Aziraphale looks away. “I'm sorry. I…”

“Anyway… I need the loo, so…,” Crowley gestures in the general direction of the restrooms. “If I don't see you after… stay safe.”

“You, too,” Aziraphale replies, his tone almost sad. 

This goodbye seems to linger a bit longer between them before Crowley finally turns and leaves. Aziraphale looks after his new acquaintance; his new… friend? No, that's a little too much. Companion, maybe. But even that feels wrong. There isn't a whole lot of companionship, they just keep running into each other.

But even though this is just random happenstance, watching Crowley walk off - or slink off, really. Who walks like that? - gives Aziraphale a little sting. His first impression of Crowley back at the bus terminal has been crumbling slowly over the past couple of hours. Crowley might be a bit odd (Aziraphale chides himself - he's one to talk about being odd) but they're good company. Fun and snarky but also oddly polite and nice. When one slightly distracted book shop owner wasn't standing in their way. 

For a second, Aziraphale catches himself thinking about them traveling together, about taking Crowley's offer and hitching a ride on a lorry to get to Paris. That little fantasy is quickly scattered by his brain kicking in and yet another tinny announcement that orders him to head for the lower deck and towards the exit.


	2. Calais to Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I read people saying "The characters had a life of their own" I never really understood what that means. Now I do.  
> These two.... why are they so stubborn? Why won't they cooperate? 
> 
> Anyway... it's here now. It's done. I hope you enjoy it.  
> And I will not take blame for any pastry or creêpe buying that you might do after this because it sure made me hungry.

The ferry terminal in Calais seems to be even less inviting as Aziraphale steps off the ramp. He wheels his suitcase through the large hall and towards the exit. There's nothing open, he can't even get a cup of tea which makes everything just so much worse. 

The air outside is chilly if not as drafty as on the ferry. He still pulls his jacket a little closer around him, watching as the other passengers mill past him and the lorries and other vehicles roll off the vessel. He lets his gaze wander across the parking lot where a few private cars pick people up. There's a coach station there but it's empty. Of course, it is. The coach he had meant to be on had departed about an hour ago.

Aziraphale pulls his fob watch out again. It's almost two in the morning. Of course he has contact numbers in Paris but there is no one he could call at this time of night. And even if there was, what could they do? There are a few cabs but those would certainly only go as far as the town of Calais.

No matter which way Aziraphale turns, he is stuck. 

“Aziraphale… fancy meeting you here.”

A little smile tugs at Aziraphale's lips at the sound of the now familiar voice behind him. “Crowley.”

“Aren't you in luck that I'm in the area.” A rather shit-eating grin splits Crowley's face.

“I suppose I am,” Aziraphale admits. “Haven't found a ride yet?” He gestures at the long line of lorries worming off the ferry. 

“Not yet. Thought I'd rescue an angel first.”

“I told you not to call me that.” It's only half a lie because Aziraphale kind of sort of maybe likes being called that even if it's vastly exaggerated. “And I am not hitch-hiking.”

“Right, because you have a whole cornucopia of options right now,” Crowley teases, elbowing Aziraphale in the side.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to reply but closes it again, his shoulders sagging at the same time. “You're right. I… I don't know what to do. I'm stuck in this…” His words cut off when Crowley lets out a deafening whistle right next to him, holding up a hand. “What the…”

Again, Crowley elbows him. “Come on, angel… let's find ourselves a ride to Paris.”

“Don't… Crowley, wait.” Aziraphale reaches for their arm.

“What? You're not scared, are you?”

“No, of course not,” Aziraphale lies. “It's just… I'm not inconveniencing you, right? You're not going out of your way, aren't you?”

“No, I’m not,” Crowley shrugs, already stepping off the sidewalk and somewhat precariously into the lane. “I'm going yours.” 

*

Being spontaneous has never been Aziraphale’s forte. In fact, the less he has to make a spontaneous decision, the better. Even when he goes out to dinner, he always checks a restaurant's menu beforehand to know exactly what to order. 

So standing in the middle of the off-ramp of the freight terminal, clutching the handle of his suitcase while lorries zip around him, is an entire galaxy away from his comfort zone. What is he doing? He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be trusting a complete stranger to hitch them a ride to Paris. He really, really, absolutely should not do that. 

And yet, Crowley hollers his name, waving a hand, and Aziraphale wheels his suitcase toward a bright blue lorry with a garish logo on the side. At least if they do get abducted, someone might be able to remember this vehicle.

Before he can protest, Crowley has opened the passenger door (on the wrong - the right - side) and climbs into the cab. They stick out a hand right into Aziraphale’s face. 

“Come on, angel. Give me your case.”

Aziraphale finds himself fish-mouthing in a wordless protest again but picks up his luggage and hands it to Crowley. Then their hand is in Aziraphale’s face again. He swallows, puffs out a breath to steel himself, then takes Crowley’s hand and lets himself be pulled up into the cab. 

“Aziraphale, this is Jerome. He’ll be our driver for today.” And then Crowley goes on in perfect and almost accent-free French and Aziraphale can only guess they’re doing introductions in reverse because he can make out his name.

“Pleased to meet you,” Aziraphale says in English, nodding politely. Jerome nods as well, then falls back into conversation with Crowley. 

Aziraphale can only stare in awe as Crowley rattles on as if it’s their native language, laughing even at something Jerome says. Then they motion for the road, Jerome toots the lorry’s horn and pulls into the lane. 

“You can give him the address you need to go to. He’ll take us as close as he can,” Crowley says, gesturing at Aziraphale’s bag.

“Oh… alright.” A little hurriedly, Aziraphale takes out his little notebook and reads out the address. 

Jerome says something in French and Crowley laughs again. 

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” Aziraphale hears himself say, sounding almost as if he’d just learned of utter betrayal.

“Don’t you?”

“Never got the hang of it. My Italian’s passable, though. All those books in latin may have helped.” He tries to take pride in that but doesn’t quite feel it.

Crowley smirks at him. Aziraphale has never met anyone who can actually smirk. “So you’re an angel who doesn’t fly and you’re traveling to Paris once a year but you don’t speak the language…. You’re an odd duck, Aziraphale.”

“You’re one to talk,” Aziraphale all but snaps. He could probably elaborate, comment on Crowley’s sunglasses that seem to be glued to their face, on the odd colour of their hair, or enquire why those trousers have to be that tight and if they’re not cutting off any important circulation. But he doesn’t say any of these things. Probably because his slightly miffed expression gives all of that way and Crowley chooses to shrug it off.

“Wake me when we get there,” Crowley says then, stretching out as best as they can between Jerome and Aziraphale, maneuvering their legs into what little foot space the cab offers.

Before Aziraphale can say anything, Crowley has leaned back in the seat, arms crossed over their chest, their head tipped back, and is snoring quietly. 

Jerome says something, smiling without looking at Aziraphale who just nods and hopes it hasn’t been a question.

He stares ahead onto the dark roads as the lorry pulls into what little traffic there is at this time of night. The radio is playing softly, barely audible over the sounds of the engine. The gentle rumble and vibrations are enough to lure anyone to sleep but even though Aziraphale is tired as well, he forces himself to stay awake. Not because Jerome actually poses a thread (if he was, Aziraphale wouldn’t understand him anyway) but because he feels like one of them has to stay awake, to pay attention to where they’re going.

Aziraphale makes a mental note when he reads “Paris” on one of the signs. At least they’re going in the right direction. That thought scatters all of a sudden when he feels Crowley shift next to him, their head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, one boney knee pressing against Aziraphale’s thigh.

He wants to say something, shift away even, but what? And where to? He’s already wedged against the door and even with their skinny frame, Crowley feels surprisingly heavy against him. 

An odd duck indeed. Going on about not trusting people but falling asleep on them in the literal blink of an eye.

As Aziraphale looks down at Crowley, he feels a little smile edge onto his lips. There is something strangely peaceful about the whole thing, as terrifying as it may be. The roads are surprisingly empty, Jerome seems like a competent driver, and Crowley is snoring quietly into his ear.

He can do this, he tells himself. He can hitch rides. He can travel without a plan (well, at least he can deviate from his plan if need be). He can trust someone he’s just met and let them sleep against his shoulder. He can do this.

*

“Paris.”

The voice jolts Aziraphale up and Crowley next to him grunts irritatedly.

“What?” Aziraphale manages. He hasn't fallen asleep, of course. He's just rested his eyes a bit. For about three hours. 

Next to them, Jerome points at a road sign.

Paris.

“We made it,” Aziraphale says mostly to himself. 

“Of course we made it. I always get where I want to be,” Crowley mumbles and promptly falls asleep again.

A bit anxiously, Aziraphale watches as the lorry maneuvers into Paris' traffic. It’s still fairly early but soon enough the roads fill with commuters the further they make their way into the city center. 

It’s not until they cross the Seine for the second time that Crowley slowly stirs away, stretching as much the tight confines of the cab allow. They mumble something in French and Jerome laughs, gesturing at something in the far distance. 

He knows that it’s probably not what they’ve been talking about but Aziraphale still follows the gesture. He spots the very tip of the Eiffel Tower peeking up in the distance and he sighs in delight. 

“Ever been up there?” Crowley asks, nodding in the general direction of the landmark.

“On the tower? Oh no. I couldn’t.” Aziraphale shudders at the mere thought.

“Shame,” Crowley mumbles with a bit of a shrug.

Jerome says something and Aziraphale can make out the words ‘boulevard’ and ‘St. Germain’, feeling a bit proud that he has understood this much. It really is pathetic how little French he knows. 

“Jerome’s gonna drop us off at Boulevard St. Germain where it crosses the Rue du Bac. Sound familiar?” Crowley translates. 

“Yes, that is quite close to my hotel. I can walk from there,” Aziraphale says almost giddily. For once in the past twelve hours something seems to be working out.

Only mildly concerned for everyone’s safety, Aziraphale watches how Jerome navigates the lorry through traffic. It involves quite a few uses of the horn and he doesn’t need Crowley to translate to know the various expletives. At last, the lorry pulls up to the curb, double parking and every available light flashing.

“There we are,” Crowley announces. They produce a bunch of folded Euro bills, count off a few and hand them to Jerome. “You go first, angel. I’ll get you your suitcase.”

Aziraphale doesn’t protest this time. He mumbles a ‘merci beaucoup’ (it doesn't sound like that when he says it) and tries to ignore all the blaring horns around them as he opens the door to climb out of the cab. He accepts his luggage as Crowley hands it down before slithering down themselves. 

“How much did you give him?” he asks, patting his jacket for his wallet. 

“Enough. And you’re not paying me back.” Crowley all but slaps Aziraphale’s hand down but refrains just an inch away from him. Then they raise the other to wave Jerome goodbye as the lorry pulls into traffic again. “Had to get to Paris somehow. You were my plus one.”

Aziraphale does a little hiccup, unsure if he’s offended or flattered. Probably a bit of both. “Well, in that case… thank you. I wouldn’t have made it here without you.” He hadn’t meant for it to come out of his mouth sounding like that but there they are now. 

There they are with Crowley taking half a step back as they slip the strap of their backpack on one shoulder. There they are with Aziraphale closing one hand on the handle of his suitcase, knuckles turning a bit white. 

“Alright, then… gotta be off,” Crowley says at last, pointing in the opposite direction.

“To do what, exactly?” Aziraphale asks before he can stop himself. “I mean… it’s surely none of my business but… it’s not even seven in the morning and there’s really nothing open, so…” His shoulders sag and he sighs in frustration with himself. “Can I invite you to breakfast?”

Crowley looks at him. Maybe he’s blinking behind those glasses. Who knows. “I’m…”

“As payback for the ride,” Aziraphale offers. “I can’t just accept you paying when I…”

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley cuts into his ramble. “I could use a coffee.”

“Really?” Aziraphale feels himself lighten up. “Well, then… There's a lovely place just down the street that serves breakfast. It is my go to. Lovely crêpes. Chef’s kiss.”

Crowley gives him a genuinely amused smile. “Lead the way.”

Aziraphale turns and, dragging his suitcase after him, heads down the street. Crowley easily falls into step with him as he begins to prattle on about the wide selection of food offered by the cafe he has in mind. 

“Of course, the best crêperie in the area is right over there… by the Church of St Germain but it’s not open yet so… Have you ever been?”

“To the church?” Crowley says around a scoff and a sneer, followed by a full body shiver. “No, thank you. Me and them….,” they point upward, “We had a bit of a falling out. I’d probably spontaneously combust setting a foot in there.”

“Oh, I’m… I’m sorry,” Aziraphale stammers, trying to steer clear of the subject. “I do like a good church, though. Sturdy buildings, they are.”

Crowley makes a non-committal sound and shrugs.

The small café is already busy with people ordering breakfast or just grabbing a beverage to go. They find a small table in the far corner and a waiter sets two menus in front of them. Crowley doesn’t even glance at it while Aziraphale browses through the long list of items, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

When the waiter returns, Crowley orders a café creme and a plain croissant while Aziraphale successfully butchers not only the chocolate au café viennois but also the rather simple crêpe paulette.

“You truly astound me, angel,” Crowley says when the waiter has noted down their order. 

“I do?” 

“For someone who’s so well traveled, someone who owns a bookshop for antiquities…. Your French truly is atrociously bad,” Crowley laughs. “I doubt you’ll get what you’ve ordered. Christophe there might have needed to spell that out phonetically.”

Heat explodes on Aziraphale’s cheeks and almost punches Crowley in the arm. “Stop it. Just because I collect books doesn’t mean I read them all.”

“Why then?”

Aziraphale shrugs, fidgeting a bit with his napkin. “Because they are pretty,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for Crowley to hear. “And they smell nice.”

At that, Crowley laughs. A full on laugh that makes little creases appears just around the edge of their glasses. A full on laugh that Aziraphale can’t help but be affected by and he catches himself smiling as well. 

Christophe returns with their drinks and the croissant for Crowley while they’re both still sniggering.

“Are you sure you don't want to eat anything else?”

Crowley shakes their head. “I’m not really a breakfast person.”

Aziraphale sits back a bit, feeling a sting of disappointment. “You could have said.”

“I tried. You didn’t let me finish.”

“Then why did you come along?”

Crowley shrugs. “Because you asked.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that. So he remains quiet until Christophe sets a plate with a delicious looking crêpe down in front of him. 

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” He pokes his fork into a piece of caramelized apple, holding it up. 

“No, thank you,” Crowley answers politely. 

Aziraphale puts his cutlery down. “You don’t think I’m taking pity on you, are you? Is that why you’re not ordering anything proper?”

Crowley looks at him, the gaze through their glasses stoic, the tightness of their mouth brief but visible before it slips back into a slightly sly smile. “I’m allergic to apples.”

“Oh.”

“I know you’re not taking pity on me. Made sure you wouldn’t when I made you spill your tea at Victoria, didn’t I?” Crowley’s brows tick up. “And I’m not ordering anything else because I don’t really eat a whole lot. I got the metabolism of a snake. One Danish after midnight and I’m set for the whole day.”

Aziraphale has to smile at that. “Is that why you’re always wearing glasses? Because you’re half-serpent.”

Crowley huffs a laugh. “Might as well be. That’s a light sensitivity thing.” They shrug, pushing their glasses up their nose. “I got a lot of things.”

“Don’t we all.” Aziraphale looks down at himself, fingers absently playing with the hem of his waistcoat where it’s already gone a bit threadbare. 

“Eat your crêpe, angel, before it gets cold.”

Aziraphale does just that and not without little delighted moans as he munches on the sweet goodness. Whenever he crunches up his nose when one of the apples is shining through with a little sourness, Crowley laughs at him but continues to sip their coffee without comment. 

“That… was absolutely scrumptious,” Aziraphale says as he places his cutlery on the plate, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “You clearly missed out on something.”

Crowley shrugs with one shoulder. “I’ll be here for a while. Who’s to say that one of those days I won’t feel like crêpe paulette?” Of course, their pronunciation is spot on.

“What are you going to do?” Aziraphale knows that he probably shouldn’t ask, that it’s none of his business but he’s curious all the same. 

“Don’t know yet. Walk around a bit, visit the Tuileries probably.”

“Are you going to work there? The garden, I mean?”

Crowley shakes their head. “Don’t think so. That’s a thing of the past.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s shoulders sag a bit. “I could see that, though. You working in a garden, I mean. I never had the patience for it but you…. Well, you have patience with me, so.”

Crowley laughs at that. “Believe me, I had a figleaf once that was fussier than you.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Aziraphale hides his blush behind his cup of not quite so hot chocolate. As he sets it down, he draws in a breath, steeling himself for his next question. “So… speaking of working… since you don’t get tired of pointing out how bad my French is… and since I need to visit several shops today where the owners are less than happy to converse in English… I thought…” He needs to take another breath because he already feels light-headed. “Would you… would you help me out?”

Crowley looks at him. By now, Aziraphale is almost able to guess what kind of look they give him despite the glasses. “You want me to translate for you?”

“If… only if you have nothing better to do. Which is not me suggesting that you have nothing better to do but to help out bumbling shop keepers but… and you’ve clearly done enough of that already but… but I thought if you’re… if you’re free….you could… only if you’re at all available, of course. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Angel…,” Crowley starts but Aziraphale doesn’t listen. 

“I know it’s awfully presumptuous of me and I certainly wouldn’t be asking if there wasn’t this one book I’d love to purchase and the price on the shop’s website is laughably usurious and I’m awful at haggling as it is so it would really help me out if you would…”

“Aziraphale!”

He stops short and stares down at Crowley’s hand on his arm. “What?” His shoulders sag. “You were going to say no, weren’t you? And here I am going on and…”

“No,” Crowley cuts him off again. “I mean… yes.”

“Yes, you were going to say no?”

“No. I meant to say yes. To whatever it was you went off on ten minutes ago.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Crowley shrugs and draws their hand back. Aziraphale fights hard not to touch the very spot on his arm. “Because I’m nice. And you clearly need my help. And you’re going to buy us a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine afterwards. Châteauneuf sound good?”

Something inside Aziraphale makes a little flip. “If we save enough money on the book, I might even buy you dinner.”

“Well, then.” Crowley sticks out a hand. “We got ourselves an arrangement.”

*

Aziraphale tells Crowley everything they need to know about the book in question, about the antiquarian bookshop in question, even about the shopkeeper in question who - at least in Aziraphale’s understanding - is a right racketeer who knows nothing about the true value of books. 

Crowley, after having ordered a second cup of coffee, nods along, sometimes asks questions. They refuse to take notes because clearly notes are for beginners. Aziraphale puts his notebook away at that. 

They drop off Aziraphale’s luggage at his hotel and he prides himself on being able to do that without Crowley’s help. He doesn’t admit that the young clerk at the reception speaks somewhat passable English. 

“Do you remember everything I’ve told you?” Aziraphale asks a bit anxiously when they head for the bookshop. 

“You’ve told me three times so yes… I remember.” 

“Alright, alright, I’m just asking.” Aziraphale holds his hands up. 

“You also asked me three times already.”

“I did, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, you did.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that his book is…”

Crowley stops and glowers at him. Aziraphale knows they do even if he can’t see their eyes. 

“And I’ve said that three times as well,” he admits more to himself than to Crowley. 

“Yes, you did,” Crowley confirms then keeps walking. They stop in front of a somewhat bland looking shop. “We’re here.” They run a hand through their hair, trying to smooth it back but failing miserably. “How do I look?”

“You’re not robbing the place, we’re buying a book.” Aziraphale looks anywhere but at Crowley. “Also very nice.”

“Right. Shall we?” Crowley gestures and grins at him which is only mildly disconcerting.

Aziraphale pushes the door open. “After you.” 

Crowley rolls their eyes, making it a full-body expression. “Oh for fu---”

“Just go in already.”

Watching Crowley buy that book is an experience. 

One that Aziraphale can only watch in something close to awe. They are smooth and suave (and almost seductive, if Aziraphale wants to think such things), they laugh at the right places, nod in genuine earnestness at others. Every now and then, they translate something for Aziraphale, mostly to negotiate the price, but other than that, Aziraphale can only watch. 

He’s still a bit awestruck when they step out onto the street and he’s clutching a paper bag to his chest that does not only contain the book he meant to get but also two more he’d spotted while browsing the shelves. And all of that for less of what he had originally planned.

“Well, that was _fun_ ,” Crowley exclaims, shoving their hands into their trouser pockets, obviously feeling very smug and proud with themselves. 

“It was, yes,” Aziraphale says, his tone a bit flat. 

“You don’t look like you had fun. I got you your book and all.” Crowley taps a finger to the bag, looking even more smug and more proud.

“Oh, I know. And I appreciate that.”

“But…?”

“But… I’ve never seen Emilien like that before. Never knew he could smile, really. I’ve been to that place three times already and he never smiled. He looked… perfectly tempted to also sell me that d’Andilly.”

Crowley shrugs, never losing his bravado. “Maybe he likes me better.”

Aziraphale stops and sighs. “He likes you better because you speak the language. Oh, you must think me to be such an idiot.”

“No, I don’t,” Crowley says matter-of-factly. “You told me _everything_ about these books which makes you clearly the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

“What?” Aziraphale all but gasps, feeling heat flutter up inside him. “Oh, hardly but… but thank you.”

“So… what is next on the list?” Crowley claps their hands with gleeful excitement.

Aziraphale hesitates, clutching his newest treasures even tighter to his chest. “Well, there’s…. I have a few more shops I’d like to visit but… you needn’t come along if you don’t want to. I’m sure you have…”

“Where to, angel?”

*

Aziraphale has the best day. Maybe not _ever_ but it’s pretty far up there.

After consulting the little list in his book, he points the way and they head for the first of a handful of book and antiquity shops. There really isn’t anything in particular he is looking for. He has made a couple of notes - of course he has - but now that he has his treasures from Emilien’s little shop, everything else they might find is just gravy.

While these little trips are always the highlight of his year - seeing other cities, eating all the food in its natural habitat - Aziraphale also dreads parts of it. Mostly because of the language barrier and his general awkwardness around people he doesn’t know (and around some he does know but doesn’t particularly like but that is beside the point).

With Crowley by his side, he almost feels elated. For the first time in years, he can converse with people who otherwise just look at him wide-eyed and a bit helpless and he can nothing but look the same in return. Now he can actually talk to them and be understood even if it’s all a bit second hand. He finds himself smiling along the conversation, laughing even though that is mostly due Crowley’s probably not verbatim translations and the faces they make behind the vendors’ backs.

By the end of their little spree, Aziraphale carries two more bags containing various books and a few art prints. Crowley has offered to carry a forth bad and Aziraphale tries not to wince every time they dangle it precariously from one outstretched finger. 

Among his newly acquired treasures, hidden deep in his bag, Aziraphale has a book that hasn’t been on his list. One he’s seen in one of the shops. One he’d bought when Crowley hadn’t been looking. One he wasn’t really sure what to do with. Well no, he knew what he wanted to do with it but he wasn’t sure if he actually wanted what he wanted to do with it.

“I’m feeling a bit peckish,” Crowley says suddenly as they are strolling along Quai Voltaire. 

“Excuse me, you what?” Aziraphale asks, raising a brow. “I could swear I heard you say…”

“You heard me just fine,” Crowley interrupts him. 

“You said you don’t eat.”

“Not true. I said I rarely eat. Monumental difference.” Crowley elbows him. “Besides, you haven’t had anything since our pitstop at the café and you did promise me dinner.”

Aziraphale feels heat tingle in his cheeks. “I did, I suppose.” He stops and looks around, finger to his lips, trying to remember if there are any decent places nearby.

“And wine. Plenty of…”

“I recall, yes. How about… yes… do come along.” He waves a hand and turns a corner, forcing Crowley to breach the space between them with a few long strides.

*

The restaurant is delightfully empty and they find a table in the mezzanine area.

While Aziraphale goes all out with a mushroom soup for starters, sautéd veal for the main and almond cake for desert, he can barely convince Crowley to order the sea bass.

“You must think me such a glutton,” Aziraphale mumbles to himself when the waiter has taken their order.

Crowley shrugs, taking a sip of water. “Why would I judge what you enjoy?”

Aziraphale smiles at that. “Not everybody thinks so.”

“Well, I’m not everybody, am I?” Crowley flashes him a grin that makes Aziraphale blush and feel a little flutter in the stomach area which has nothing to do with the delicious scent of food in the air.

“No, you’re certainly not,” he says more to himself than to his companion as the waiter pours their wine.

As promised as payment for Crowley’s services, they share a bottle of red between them. And another. And almost half a third that leaves them both fairly drunk as they make their way back to Aziraphale’s hotel.

“You know,” Aziraphale lulls as he leans heavily on Crowley, almost hooking his arm through theirs. “For someone who eats so little… you hold your liquor excep--- excess-- quiet well.”

Crowley snorts a laugh, having to balance themselves against Aziraphale as they round a corner. “Told you. It’s metabl--,” they giggle as they seem to have the same wine-induced struggle to find the right word, “metabom--- it’s a body thing. That’s what I mean.”

“You… you certainly have the better body then because I will feel this in the morning,” Aziraphale hiccups. 

“Nothing a night under the stars won’t cure.” Crowley casts an almost forlorn look up at the night sky where not one single star is visible.

“Stay with me,” Aziraphale blurts and it stops them both. “The hotel, I mean.”

“Can’t afford it, I’m afraid.” There’s a nonchalance to Crowley’s words that doesn’t sound too real. 

“I’ll pay. For you. For the room, I mean.”

Crowley takes a step back, shaking their head. “Can’t let you do that, angel.”

“Yes, you can,” Aziraphale protests. “You saved me today. It’s the least I can do.”

“We agreed not to have pity with me,” Crowley almost chides, sounding very serious all of a sudden. “Besides, we’re already even. If I let you do this, I’ll owe you and there’s nothing I…”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Aziraphale interrupts. “Please… I can’t… I can’t bear to think you’re… sleeping in the street or wherever. It’s not right. You deserve better.”

There’s a moment of silence between them and Aziraphale’s heart sinks a bit when Crowley takes another step back from him. 

“How would you know what I deserve?” Crowley asks then, their voice almost small and defiant. “You don’t know me.”

At his next words, the pulse thrums up in Aziraphale’s throat. He has no idea where they come from but they are the only possible answer. “But I’d like to.”

*

"I'm sorry, Sir, we're completely booked," the desk clerk at the reception says in an English that's almost as bad as Aziraphale's French. 

"Well, can't say we didn't try, angel," Crowley says, sounding just a bit relieved. "Thanks for the effort, though."

"Please stay, Crowley," Aziraphale tries, surprised by how desperate he sounds. 

"You heard the man. There's no guest room available for me." 

"Stay with me, then," Aziraphale echoes his own words. "My room is big enough for two."

"Aziraphale…" 

"Just for tonight. We both had too much to drink and I'd hate to think that…" Aziraphale makes a step forward and before he knows it, he has a hand on Crowley's arm. They both look down at it but Aziraphale doesn't pull back. "I don't want you to get hurt. It's cold out there at night…" 

"Yeah, alright," Crowley finally says. "But only to make you stop talking." 

Aziraphale beams at them, entirely pleased with himself. As he retrieves his suitcase to take upstairs, the desk clerk says something in French and Aziraphale looks helpless at Crowley. “What did he say?”

“That he’ll charge you double now that you’re bringing a prostitute to your room.”

Flustered, Aziraphale stops halfway into the elevator and the doors bump into his shoulders with a ding. “What? He thinks that I’m… that you’re… Oh my good….”

A snorted laugh pulls Aziraphale out of his embarrassed stammer. “It was a joke, angel,” Crowley says with something close to a giggle. 

“It was not funny. Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it _was_ funny.”

“What did he really say then? Be serious.”

Crowley’s shoulders sag a bit. “That he won’t charge you double but only because you’re a well-liked guest here.”

“Oh, right. Well, thank you.” He nods at the clerk who has long since stopped paying attention to them.

Still pouting a bit, Aziraphale pushes the button that takes them up to the fourth floor. The ride up is a bit awkward because he can’t shake off Crowley’s worlds even if they had been meant as a joke. He doesn’t look like someone who would hire prostitutes, does he? He’s never considered it. Would he go for someone looking like Crowley? He hadn’t considered that either. Maybe?

“What’s your room number?” Crowley asks, putting a foot in the closing elevator doors.

“412. Even numbers are on the right.” Aziraphale points down the corridor. It takes him three tries to get the electronic lock to open, then he wheels his suitcase inside. He hasn't even switched on the lights yet when he stops short. “Oh, that’s… this is like something out of a bad romance novel.” He steps into the room, pushing his key card into the slot by the door that makes the lights come on. 

Crowley peers over his shoulder. “Only one bed? Should I question your intentions, angel?”

“What? No. Absolutely not. I…. I should ask if we can switch rooms. We…”

“I can always just go if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No, no. It’s… it’s fine. We already slept in closer quarters, didn’t we?” Aziraphale shuffles into the room and switches another light on. “Although I have to admit that’s been quite a while since I shared a bed with someone.”

“You needn’t be worried, angel. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any intentions other than sleeping in a bed.” 

“Oh, I… I wasn’t insinuating…” Aziraphale turns around to find Crowley looking at him. Without glasses. Immediately he leaps to switch off the lamps again, letting only the light from the street in through the curtains. 

“Thanks.” Crowley pinches the bridge of their nose, squinting. 

“For not insinuating or the lights?” Aziraphale asks because he doesn’t know what to say. He has never seen such eyes before. Amber. Almost golden. They shine when Crowley shoots him a tired smile. 

“Both.”

A moment passes between them in which Aziraphale looks at Crowley, at the curve of that smile, the freckled nose where the glasses have left their mark, the creases along their eyes that tell of more smiles in the past. And those strange golden eyes. 

“Angel?”

Aziraphale blinks, realizing Crowley has been speaking to him. “What?”

“I said why don’t you use the bathroom first?” Crowley shrugs out of their jacket, draping it haphazardly over the back of a chair. 

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Aziraphale puts his suitcase up on a little bench by the window and opens it, drawing a canvas zipper bag from it and a smaller one that contains his toiletries. “I’ll be right out.” He shuffles off into the ensuite and closes the door behind him. 

Making as quick business as he can, he washes up and changes into his pajamas. He’s oddly glad to have picked one of his rather fancy tartan-print models that still has all its buttons and that doesn’t strain too much over his belly. Tucking the top into the trousers as if he was wearing a dress shirt, he steps out into the bedroom again.

“You know, for someone who not twenty-four hours ago told me you didn’t trust people…. Oh…,” he stops short when he sees Crowley. 

Crowley who has flopped down on the bed, still fully clothed except for their boots - why isn’t Aziraphale surprised that their socks aren’t matching? -, and who is fast asleep, a pillow clutched to their chest.

“You fall asleep on them quite easily,” Aziraphale finishes quietly, smiling to himself. 

As careful as he can, he untucks the duvet and cover and drapes them over Crowley’s back. Then he pads over to a small built-in closet where he finds another blanket to use for himself. A little awkwardly he sits down on what little space Crowley left for him, then lays down and pulls the blanket up to his chest. 

Like that, he lays awake for over an hour. That Crowley snores quietly next to him doesn’t help. But it’s his brain that keeps him awake.

He keeps going over today, over everything that has happened. Their less than charming chance meeting at Victoria Station, the missed ferry and their bonding over travel sickness and cheap tea, the ride on the lorry, their shopping spree and Aziraphale’s new found treasures, their dinner. And now this. 

Everything - literally everything - about his plan had gone to shit from the very first moment. Nothing had worked out. And yet… he hadn’t gotten a conniption like he’d always thought he would. He was alright. Tired, drunk, and a few hundred pounds poorer but… alright. 

Because of Crowley. This strange person who had been so rude to him, who had made him spill his tea, who had made fun of him for his bad French and his meticulous plan, had saved him. They had saved him from getting stranded in Calais, from spending even more money on old books than he should have. And now they were sleeping peacefully next to him. Again. 

Everything - literally everything - about his plan had gone to shit and yet he’d just had the best day of his life. 

Because of Crowley. 

*

Aziraphale wakes alone the next morning and he almost laughs. It really is like one of those bad romance novels he secretly reads sometimes when his brain can’t handle another bible analysis in Latin. 

He doesn’t laugh, though, because somehow he had feared this might happen. Crowley had tried to tell him no, had tried to leave multiple times but Aziraphale hadn’t let him, luring him back over and over again. It wasn’t much of a surprise that they’d taken the first chance to get away from him.

Aziraphale doesn’t blame Crowley. There was probably far better company out there. Company that spoke French and didn’t exploit Crowley for their language skills. Company who made better jokes and didn’t make ridiculous plans in little notebooks. 

He chides himself for letting himself believe that today would just continue the way yesterday had ended. That they would go out there - together - eat food, buy books, maybe visit the Tuileries or even the Louvre. He had been to Paris so many times but he’d never been to the Louvre. 

And he hadn’t given Crowley the book he’d gotten for them.

Sighing, Aziraphale gets out of bed and straightens the blanket and duvet. After a quick shower, he gets dressed again. He should go out and get some breakfast even though he doesn’t really feel hungry right now. So he just takes his bag, makes sure his stupid little notebook is still there along with Crowley’s book that feels oddly heavy now, and heads out. 

The same clerk from the night before is still at the desk as he steps out of the lift and into the lobby. 

“Excuse me… I understand it’s a bit of a long shot but… you have not seen my friend, have you?” Aziraphale asks before he can stop himself. He almost winces at the word ‘friend’. Had they been friends? Or even friendly? Probably not, otherwise Crowley would have at least left a note. “They’re about this tall… sunglasses… long hair. Red hair,” he continues lamely. “They… they left. I’d just like to know when.”

Why is he doing this to himself? He’d never thought himself to be a masochist that way. 

The clerk looks at him, blinking tiredly. “Sorry, I was in the back room.”

“Well, thanks anyway.” Aziraphale forces a smile onto his face. “Have a nice day.”

He doesn’t wait for the clerk to respond before he steps out onto the street. 

“I hope you like your crêpes with sugar. I wasn’t sure how you felt about Nutella.” 

Aziraphale stops short. “Crowley. I thought you’d left.”

“I did. To get us breakfast.” They hold out two tinfoil packages. “These are from the Crêperie de St. Germain.”

“You remembered?”

Crowley grins at him. “You only told me yesterday.” They raise two paper cups. “Café au lait?”

Aziraphale’s face falls a bit. “That’s not what I meant when I said I thought you’d left.”

“I know.” Crowley shrugs, lowering their offerings. “I’d never leave like that.”

Heat rushes into Aziraphale’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I woke up alone and I… I guess you’re right and I don’t know you all that well after all.”

“You could,” Crowley says, not looking at him. 

“What?”

“Listen, angel… when I was in line to get the crêpes, I’ve been thinking… since you can clearly use my help…,” Crowley toes at some piece of garbage with their boot, “and I had the best day yesterday… why don’t I… come along?”

“You want to?”

“Travel with you.”

“Really?”

“I’ve never been to Rome.”

Aziraphale stares at them, trying to make sense of what Crowley has just said.

“So what are you saying, angel? Will you take me with you?” Crowley inches a bit closer when Aziraphale still hasn’t answered.

“If… if you want to,” Aziraphale stammers.

“I got us the crêpes, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale has to smile at that. “And you didn’t even burst into flames.”

Crowley matches his smile. “So what’s the plan today? Besides the eating and the book buying?”

“I was thinking about the Tuileries.”

“Why not.”

“What about the Louvre?”

“I’ve never been.”

Aziraphale takes on a serious expression that’s only watered down by the hint of a smile. “But first… the crêpes.”

“Of course.” Crowley holds up the packages again and Aziraphale takes the top one, carefully peeling off the foil. 

He moans in delight as he takes a bite, enjoying the crunch of the sugar between the thin layers of the crêpe. 

“Do you need me to leave the two of you alone?” Crowley eyes him.

Now that Aziraphale has actually seen them without the glasses, it’s so much easier to read their expression. “Don’t you dare.”

Crowley grins, taking a sip of their coffee.. “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel. Wouldn’t dream of it.”


End file.
